Yes, that had to be it. A nightmare. That was what he had told his wife.
He couldn't be back. It was impossible.
But for a moment there…
No. A bad dream. Nothing more.
But what if I'm wrong?
He shuddered. If he was wrong, untold horrors lay ahead. Not only for him but for all those living and yet to be born. He turned to his wife and forced a smile. "What's on the boob tube tonight?"
Four
Saturday, February 24
You watch with glee as the Judean infants are torn from the arms of their screaming mothers. Those who protest in a more physical manner are brutally and efficiently subdued by the Roman soldiers in your command. The fathers who run to their families' aid are threatened with swords, and those who will not be cowed are hacked down. The cries of the parents and children alike are music to you, their pain and anguish an exquisite ambrosia.
Only infants of one month or younger may be taken, and only in and around this little town south of Jerusalem. You wish it could be all the children for miles around, but your limits have been set.
Finally all the helpless, squalling infants have been piled in a clearing in a nearby field. The soldiers hesitate in their duty. You scream at them to follow their orders. You pull a sword from the nearest and wade into the tangle of tiny arms and legs. You swing the short, broad blade back and forth in a scything motion, feeling it slice through smooth skin and soft bones as easily as a heated knife through ripe cheese. Tiny crimson geysers shoot up, spraying you. The spilling inside's steam in the cold air.
You laugh. You don't care if the soldiers hang back. You'll gladly finish the job yourself. And why not? It's your right, isn't it? After all, weren't you the one who told that doddering old fool, Herod, that the King of the Jews was rumored to have been born in this very area within the last week or two? Weren't you the one who convinced him that this was the only sure way to guarantee that his little corner of the world would pass on to his sons as he has planned?
Finally the blood lust grips the soldiers and they join you in the slaughter. You step back now, watching them do the work, for it is so much better when you allow others to sink to new depths.
You watch them slashing… slashing… slashing—
Carol awoke screaming.
"Carol! Carol!" Jim was saying, holding her. "What on earth's wrong?"
She lay there drenched in sweat, wanting to be sick.
"Oh, Jim, it was awful!"
"It was only a dream, only a dream," he whispered, trying to soothe her.
But the horror wouldn't go away. So real. So real! Almost as if she were right there. The Slaughter of the Innocents. She only vaguely remembered it as a passing reference in one of the Gospels. What had injected it into her subconscious tonight?
"You okay?" Jim said after a while.
"Yeah. Okay now," she said, lying. "Must have been the pepperoni pizza."
"Pepperoni never gave you nightmares before."
"It did this time."
"Here. Cuddle up and get warm."
She fit herself against him. That was better, but she couldn't forget—
… slashing… slashing…
"You're shaking. Next time we get plain—no pepperoni."
But it wasn't the pepperoni pizza. It was something else, but she didn't know what. She'd been having so many nightmares lately. Mostly they had been vague, formless, ill-remembered experiences, leaving her frightened and unsettled.
But this…
Jim was soon dozing again. But Carol lay awake the rest of the night, afraid to sleep.
Five
Monday, February 26
1
Jim checked out the paintings on the walls as they were led down a hall to the conference room. They were all country scenes, full of dark, muted greens and inhabited by dogs and horsemen.
"Somehow I don't think we'll be seeing any Peter Max on the walls here," he said out of the corner of his mouth.
Carol gave a warning squeeze to his hand that made him wince.
The Park Avenue offices of Fletcher, Cornwall & Boothby were staid and hushed, reeking of the Establishment with their high ceilings, solid oak paneling, and thick carpets the color of money. It was late afternoon and most of the staff looked as if they were readying to call it a day.
"There's Bill!" he heard Carol say as they entered the conference room.
Sure enough, Bill was already seated at the long mahogany table, his cassock fully buttoned to the throat this time, trim brown hair neatly combed, looking every bit like Father William Ryan, S.J., representing St. Francis Home for Boys at the reading of the will should look.
There was an elderly couple at one end of the table and a group of four lawyer types in quiet conversation at the other. One of the latter—a short, dark, intense fellow Jim gauged to be about thirty—broke away as soon as they entered. He approached with an outstretched hand.
"Mr. Stevens? I'm Joe Ketterle. We spoke on the phone last week."
"Right," Jim said, shaking his hand. "This is my wife, Carol."
"How do you do? Well, you're the last one. We're ready to get down to business. Please take a seat." He pulled two chairs from the table and eased Jim and Carol into them.
They sat next to Bill. Jim looked around the table again. Besides himself and one or two of the attorneys, there was no one in the room young enough to be another of Hanley's offspring.
"I don't see any potential brothers and sisters here," he whispered to Carol.
She nodded. "Looks like you're it."
Excitement expanded within him as an older attorney who introduced himself as Harold Boothby put on a pair of half-glasses and began the reading of the will. There was a lot of legalese, but finally they got down to the good stuff—the bequests. A cool million went to Hanley's longtime associate, Dr. Edward Derr. An attorney who seemed to be apart from the others made notes and said something about the bequest passing via Derr's will to his wife. Jim guessed he represented Mrs. Derr. The elderly couple—Hanley's longtime housekeeper and groundsman—each got a quarter million. The old woman broke into tears. St. Francis Home for Boys got a quarter million as well.
Bill seemed shocked at the amount. "Can we ever use it!" he said in a hoarse voice.
Jim's palms were slick with sweat. There's nobody left but me.
" 'And finally,' " Mr. Boothby intoned, " 'I leave the remainder of my estate, all property and financial assets, to James Jonah Stevens.' "
Jim's throat was suddenly dry. "Wha-what are we talking about when we talk about 'remainder'?"
"We haven't worked out the value of the estate to the penny as yet," Mr. Boothby said, gazing at Jim over the top of his reading glasses, "but we estimate your share to be worth something in the neighborhood of eight million dollars."
Jim felt as if all the air had suddenly been sucked from the room. Beside him he heard Carol give out a short, high-pitched cry, then clap a hand over her mouth. Bill was on his feet, slapping Jim on the shoulder.
"That's some neighborhood!" Bill cried.
The next few minutes were a blur of smiles and handshakes and congratulations. Jim wandered through them in a daze. He should have been jubilant, should have been dancing on the table, but he couldn't help feeling disappointed, cheated. Something was missing.
Eventually he and Carol were alone in the conference room with Joe Ketterle who was talking at breakneck speed.
"… so if you feel the need for any legal advice on how to manage your share of the estate, any advice at all, please don't hesitate to call me."
He pressed his card into Jim's hand. Jim suddenly realized why he had been receiving the red-carpet treatment: He was now a wealthy potential client.
"You're pretty familiar with the Hanley estate?" Jim said, staring down at the card.
"Very."
"Was there any mention at all in his papers about why he left so much of his estate to me?"
"No," Ketterle said
with a shake of his head. "No reason given at all. You mean you don't know?"
Jim wanted out of here. He wanted a quiet place where he could huddle with Carol and the two of them could talk this whole thing out. Eight million dollars! Suddenly he was filthy rich and it scared the hell out of him. Life would never be the same and that was what was frightening him. He didn't want the money to change what he and Carol had together.
"Can I have a copy of the will?"
"Of course."
"Thanks. And the house—it's mine?"
"Yes." He handed Jim an envelope. "Here's a set of keys. We'll have to have you back here to sign some papers for legal transfer of ownership, of course, but—"
He took the envelope. "Great. We'll be in touch."
Jim pulled Carol out into the hall. He spotted Bill standing in the atrium by the elevators and was glad to see he hadn't left yet, but he cursed under his breath when he saw who was talking to him.
2
"Damn!"
Carol glanced at Jim. He seemed more tense now than he had before the reading of the will. She had expected him to return to his laconic, wisecracking self, but if anything, he had become grim.
Maybe he was in shock. God knew she was. Eight million dollars! It was an unimaginable sum. Her mind couldn't get a grip on it. What she did know for sure was that their lives were going to be changed by the inheritance. For the better, she prayed.
"What's wrong, Jim?"
He gestured ahead. "Look who's with Bill."
Carol recognized the tall, slovenly fellow with the long black hair and blotchy skin.
"Gerry Becker? What's he doing here?"
Before Jim could answer, Becker turned toward them and threw his arms wide.
"Jim Stevens! Heir to the Hanley fortune! Far out! Hold it right there!"
He raised the Nikon slung from his neck and flashed a photo of them as they approached. Carol had met Gerry Becker only twice before—both times at Monroe Express Christmas parties—and had disliked him immediately. He attached himself, talked into your face, backed you into a corner, and yakked on about himself—always about himself. People at the parties took turns scraping him off on each other. He was overweight but that didn't stop him from wearing fitted shirts. A roll of fat was squeezed above his three-inch-wide leather belt. Despite the fact that he was nudging thirty, he seemed to have bought the whole hippie look in a package—beard, long hair, fringed suede jacket, tie-dyed shirt, bell-bottoms, and an aversion to soap. All he needed was a couple of strands of love beads to complete the picture. Carol didn't mind the hippie look itself, so she could not put her finger on just why she disliked him, other than the fact that he epitomized what her mother used to call "skeevvy." She knew Jim liked him even less.
"Hi, Gerry," she said, trying to be polite.
Just then the elevator door opened next to Bill. Jim pulled her toward it and they crowded in behind him.
"Bye, Gerry," Jim said.
But they weren't quick enough. Becker darted between the doors before they slid closed.
"Hey, man. You weren't trying to duck an interview with me, were you, Stevens?"
"What are you doing here, Gerry?" '
"You kidding? Monroe's richest resident gets killed and one of my fellow journalists on the Express is named in the will—that's news, man!"
Up close, Carol could see large flakes of dandruff salted through Becker's oily hair. The skin along his hairline and his eyebrows was reddened, irritated, and flaky as well. She wondered when he had last brushed his teeth.
She slipped to the back of the elevator car.
"I was just talking to the good Father here," he said, nodding toward Bill, "telling him about my days at the Trib. He says his orphanage made out pretty well. How'd you do?"
Carol glanced at Bill, saw him smile and roll his eyes as if to say, Where'd you find this guy? She realized with a start that this was the first time he had looked directly at her since they had arrived. His gaze had been either avoiding her or sliding off her all morning.
"I did okay," Jim said in a guarded tone.
Becker pulled out a notepad. "Far out! How about some details?"
"Look, Gerry," Jim said. Carol could sense her husband's growing annoyance. "I don't want to discuss it now. In fact, this whole scene here is pretty intrusive."
Becker's face twisted into a grimace that managed at once to look nasty and offended.
"Oh, I get it, Stevens. Inherit a little money and first thing you do is turn your back on your friends?"
She felt Jim stiffen, so she laid a hand on his arm. As he hesitated, the elevator stopped at the ground floor and the doors opened. Stepping out into the lobby, Jim said,
"Not now, Gerry. Meet me tomorrow around noon at the Hanley mansion and I'll give you an exclusive."
"The Hanley mansion? That's cool. Why there?"
"I own it now."
Becker seemed too dazed to follow them as they fled the building.
"I think a celebration is in order," Carol said once they were outside and around a corner and were sure he wasn't going to catch up. The sun was low and Park Avenue was in deep, chilled shadows. She tugged Bill's sleeve. "And this time you're coming along. No excuses."
Bill seemed flustered. "I really can't. I should get back. And besides"—he opened his overcoat to expose his cassock— "you don't want a priest along to throw a wet blanket over wherever it is you plan to celebrate."
"Well, let's see," she said. "We're halfway between Xavier and Regis. Surely there's got to be a Jebbie at one of those two places who's your size and who'll lend you some civvies."
"Well, yeah. I know a guy at Xavier who's about my size, but—"
"Then it's settled." She looked at Jim. "Right?"
He smiled crookedly and pulled out the car keys. "Downtown it is. J. Carroll will take us."
"John Carroll?"
"No. J. Carroll. It's a car, not a Jesuit."
Bill's face took on a pained look. "It wouldn't happen to be a Nash, would it?"
"Of course."
"That's awful!" He grinned. "Okay. As long as you're sure I won't be in the way when you're accosted by other future Pulitzer prizewinning journalists like the last."
They all laughed as they headed for the garage, and for the first time, their newfound millions notwithstanding, Carol felt really good about the day.
3
Amalia's Clam House, Little Italy
"Remember Jerry Shauer?" Jim said as he twirled spaghetti onto his fork.
He was finally beginning to relax. The three of them had this end of the long table to themselves. A black couple was deep in whispered conversation at the other. The Chianti was good, and his spaghetti aglio et olio was al dente, just the way he liked it.
"Sure," Bill said around a mouthful of scungilli Fra Diavolo. Dressed in a borrowed crew-neck sweater and a pair of wide-wale cords, he now looked like a graduate student. "Our old quarterback."
"Right. Married Mary Ellen Kovach. They had a kid last year."
"Really?"
"Yeah. Named her April."
"That's nice," Bill said, then he almost choked. "Oh, no! April Shauer?" He looked to Carol for confirmation. "That's got to be a joke!"
Carol shook her head, then began to laugh. Soon they were all laughing. Jim wondered why it was so funny tonight. Maybe it was the wine. They broke up three times before order was restored.
This was like the old days. Jim thought about the Bill Ryan he used to know. The long-armed kid who had all the speed on their high-school football team, the Hawks from Our Lady of Perpetual Sorrow—or "Perpetual Motion," as the guys called it. Bill had been a wide receiver; Jim had been an iron man, playing running back on offense and linebacker on defense. Bill dazzled their opponents with his speed and footwork while Jim frightened them with the crushing force of his blocking and the howling ferocity of his tackling. He couldn't repress a twinge of guilt, even after all these years, as he remembered the dark pleasure he
had taken from ramming into members of the other team, hearing them grunt in pain as he butted them aside or hurled them to the turf. He hit them harder than he had to, hit them with everything he had. And he had hurt quite a few of them, some seriously. He was glad now that Stony Brook hadn't had a football team. Otherwise he might well have joined, and the carnage would have continued. As he matured, he had learned how to control his violent urges. Marriage to Carol had helped.
But he wondered: Had Dr. Hanley possessed a seething core of violence like his own? Had he managed to lock it away as Jim had?
He turned his thoughts back to Bill who had been a valued member of the team as well but had never really been one of the gang. When locker-room talk turned away from school and sports and got into who had been the latest to feel up Mary Jo Munsey, Bill faded away. Still, he had been somewhat of a regular guy. He could work miracles with carburetors and would go to parties and CYO dances and dance with the girls, had even dated Carol fairly steadily for a few years. But he had always seemed one step removed from the crowd, always slightly out of tune with everybody else. One of those guys who heard a different drummer.
Some of the guys would tease him for being such a square, but Jim could never get into that. He had always liked Bill. He had been able to discuss things with Bill that he could not even approach with the other guys. Heavy stuff. Ideas. They both were voracious readers and so they often discussed books. He still remembered the long arguments they'd had over Ayn Rand's Atlas Shrugged when it first came out. They rarely agreed on anything—that was what made the conversations so stimulating. Bill was always on the up side. Idealman, Jim had called him. And Bill had dubbed him Cynicalman in return.
Initially Jim had been stunned to learn that Bill Ryan had joined the Jesuit seminary after high school. "I thought you were going to be a mechanic!" he remembered telling him jokingly. But after thinking about it for a while, he had concluded that he should have seen it coming all along. He knew that Bill believed in God and Man, and in Virtue and Decency being their own rewards. Believed it then and believed it now, apparently. There was something refreshing about that in the God Is Dead age.
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